


His

by Lotus_Dumplings



Series: Eagle Eyed Verse [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cooking, Lazy Mornings, Mentions of religion, Mornings, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, analogies, aspec characters, i mean ig, is this a relationship study???, musings, stupi boy, tbh gil gets jealous of the world, teeny tiny glimpse of a starvation mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23573803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotus_Dumplings/pseuds/Lotus_Dumplings
Summary: Venice looks brilliant, Gilbert thinks, just like their city. Sunlight begins to filter through the gauzy kitchen curtains, cascading them in gold streams. If angels existed, they'd surely look similar to Feliciano, with a false face—round and young, hiding wisdom and ill intent—and surprisingly sharp cheekbones. They're beautiful, like the marble city of art and glass, and both have so much history buried below. Finally, they spare him a glance, eyes glittering a faint amber, and their previously distracted features curl into a sly smirk."You're up."
Relationships: North Italy/Prussia (Hetalia)
Series: Eagle Eyed Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607125
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	His

**Author's Note:**

> More of this cuz i wanted to

Gilbert rises with the sun. He always has, though the reason has changed. Long ago, it was for morning confession and preparing another hospital bed. Then, it was to pray to himself, before he lost faith. No, those perhaps weren't the right words. Before he stumbled on truth. Read his false muse for himself. When he learned Latin, he awoke to write, and when he officially joined his military, he was roused early without exception. 

Now, it's simply ingrained in him, and though the smell of semolina and sugar and the relaxed atmosphere of the Venetian morning try to coax him back to sleep, the absence of that familiar heat dissuades him. It's odd, how that makes his heart wrench. He wants that sense of comfortable closeness, that rush of warmth when a head rests against his chest, and the routine slowing of his racing heart as he can do nothing but accept the embrace. It's some of the only contact he allows himself, the only resolve to the itching need in his fingers. Though, perhaps, that's ingrained in him as well.

He shouldn't be this disappointed. He knows Feliciano cannot bring themself to sleep at night and only lies with him because of the schedule his broken mind simply must abide by. He knows they are a constant moving spirit, and though rather calm and carefree the past century, they cannot willingly close their eyes to weakness. He knows they sleep only when the necessity takes them over, leaving tasks and crafts half undone. And though he knows, he wishes it weren't so and damns the world beneath his breath. He wants—he needs them with him, to steady him, to treasure him, to be _his_ and to make him feel the same lack of anxiety that defines them and is just so out of reach.

He takes a deep breath, counting to calm himself down. 

_3, 6, 9, 12, 15—_

What's the problem, anyway? What the hell is he feeling? It's twisting him and consuming him. If he doesn't do something, the flames will burn him. He's a soldier, dammit! He should be past this! He will allow himself no weakness. He can't allow it, so he shoves it down, snuffing the fire inside, then pushing still, kicking the ashes until he can't remember what he was so heated about in the first place.

He opens his eyes, barely realizing they were closed at all. Stumbling out of bed, he pulls on his coat splayed across the vanity chair, hastily ignoring his own reflection. As expected, Feliciano is downstairs, cooking and woodcarving at the same time, and Gilbert briefly thinks that multitasking will surely be the end of them one day, before he shoves away the thought of "ends" altogether. 

Venice looks brilliant, Gilbert thinks, just like their city. Sunlight begins to filter through the gauzy kitchen curtains, cascading them in gold streams. If angels existed, they'd surely look similar to Feliciano, with a false face—round and young, hiding wisdom and ill intent—and surprisingly sharp cheekbones. They're beautiful, like the marble city of art and glass, and both have so much history buried below. Finally, they spare him a glance, eyes glittering a faint amber, and their previously distracted features curl into a sly smirk.

"You're up." 

Gilbert tries to smirk back. He won't admit that it's lacking. "You waitin' for me?" 

They shrug. "You could say." They put down their whittling knife, observing the tiny bird sculpture before leaving it. As if sensing everything he's forcing down, they pull Gilbert into the kitchen, pull him closer to them, and pull him apart, as if he's nothing more than a ball of yarn. They're careful when touching him, avoiding the unofficial off-limit areas, and a spark of appreciation twinges inside of him.

It always takes Gilbert aback when Feliciano rubs up his arms. Their hands should be rough from ropes and wood and swords, and yet they're soft from care, more welcoming than the features of Venice should be. And he's temporarily stricken with envy because Feliciano is so full of contradictions in a way that works, in a way that is them when his own contradictions are exactly what Gilbert can't stand about himself. Being this close, he can smell Feliciano's distant smell of _fritole _and salt water and, again, it simply doesn't make sense but it's perfect.__

__They lean close, or at least, as close as Gilbert will allow, and whisper, "Help me with the _Bigoli in Salsa_?" And though Gilbert doesn't cook—he's barely has reason to learn, what with eating little beyond tree bark—he nods feebly, fighting the urge to run his fingers through Feliciano's hair. Their dark, wavy hair, which they've grown out again this summer to put it in the intricate braids and ties they enjoy so much. It reminds him of their first formal meeting, when his hospital, his life, had been destroyed and his few remaining knights relocated to Venice. And, though he'd refuse to admit it upon being asked, he was immediately panicked, immediately intimidated, and immediately smitten. In later years, he'd learn he wasn't the only one._ _

__That's the thing about Feliciano Vargas, about Felice Morelli, about Felix dal Sol. Be it the past or the present, they were not meant to love one alone. Their heart is like an ocean, reaching out to all, tempting and inviting and dangerous. Those who can survive it are indeed rewarded, but it is, nonetheless, untameable. Feliciano cannot belong to Gilbert, the way Gilbert wants them to, and that's what he fails to realize. Gilbert is selfish and hypocritical, because his heart is like the sky—open, visible, and changing with the hour, never belonging to one, never truly in reach—and yet he wants all of Feliciano, all of _Venice _to himself.___ _

____Feliciano pushes it a bit with the kiss, but it would be a lie to say Gilbert didn't want it. Their lips are soft and familiar, despite the few times they've shown such intimacy, and it's both too long and too short for him. There it is, again. The rare itch in his hands, that clashing need and fear that he feels far and few between. It only makes sense for Feliciano to be one of those exceptions; they're so unique, so enticing, so contradictory. Gilbert will never see it, never say it, never admit to it, but though Feliciano will never be his, Gilbert will always be theirs. He will always come back to them, like the sky meets the waves._ _ _ _

____They pull away, and for a moment, he catches a bittersweetness in their eyes. Just a moment, though, because they're quickly laughing sweetly with that venomous undertone and grabbing the remaining ingredients. And, for now, Gilbert can leave it at that. Later, he says. Later, he can have Venice. Later, he can open up. Later, he can get rid of the odd hammering in his chest whenever Feliciano gets close. Later, because it's not like he has anything to lose. They have all the time in the world._ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Right so hc explanation. After the fall of Acre (which killed a considerable amount of knights), the Teutonic Knights relocated headquarters to Venice in 1291, and stayed there for 18 years, until 1309. This would've been the first time these two formally met, as trade was typically handled by people who actually _left the hospital _and the Teutonic Order wasn't involved much in the sacking of Constantinople (though Gilbert would have certainly heard rumors).__
> 
> __The Duchy of Prussia was formed when the Teutonic State converted from Roman Catholicism to Protestant Lutheranism, becoming the one of first Protestant states and causing a lot of conflict and anger amongst Europe. The Knights relocated to Vienna. However, Lutheran ideals involved one reading the bible for themselves and coming to "there own" conclusion (though it actually was similar to Catholicism in that you were practically told what to think about these passages), so I hc this is when Gilbert, local dirt child, would've learned to read. And with the change of everything he thought he knew and was told his entire life, mixed with some "ehhh" about the bible and regret, he lost faith._ _
> 
> __The dangerousness of the sea alludes to my demiro Feli hc. They can fall in love, but only if you can get close enough. The "rare itching need" alludes to my greyace Gil hc. Yaaay._ _
> 
> __Fritole is a venetian dessert. Bigoli in Salsa is a venetian pasta dish. Semolina is a grain used to make bread and pasta._ _
> 
> __Feli woodworks, cuz they be doing boatmaking my dudes._ _
> 
> __Felix dal Sol means Felix of the Sun in Venetian._ _
> 
> __I think a lot about Ducal Prussia and it shows._ _


End file.
